


Futbol Head

by NaNoWriTJMo



Category: Hey Arnold!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-01-29 16:16:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12634647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaNoWriTJMo/pseuds/NaNoWriTJMo
Summary: Lorenzo becomes an unlikely asset to Arnold's soccer team, but when he is forced to confront the ghosts of his past, it's up to Arnold to convince him to face his fears and help bring their team to victory. #NaNoWriTJMo





	1. Chapter 1

Arnold and the gang were kicking a soccer ball around on the field when Gerald finally arrived.

“Hey, you made it!” Arnold and Gerald did their secret handshake.

“Sorry I’m late, man,” Gerald apologized. “I had some things I needed to take care of. Is everyone here?”

“Looks like it,” Arnold turned around and pointed to the group of fourth graders from his class.

“Wow! There are a lot of people trying out for soccer this year.”

“I know,” replied Arnold. “And once the coach arrives we can get started with the tryouts.”

“Hey, is he actually trying out, too?” Gerald pointed.

“Huh?” Arnold turned to look where Gerald’s finger was pointing: Lorenzo was sitting at the sidelines. “Oh, no – he just decided to stay here until his mother pics him up for viola lessons.”

“Yeah, yeah – enough small talk,” butted in Helga. “So where is this guy so we can get going already?”

“Hello, boys and girls!” said a stocky man approaching the group.

“Oh no,” said Sid, face-palming.

“You gotta be kidding me…” muttered Gerald.

Arnold looked at the man in confusion. “Coach Wittenberg?”

“Indubitably, Arnold!” replied Coach Wittenberg. “Are you ready to become the greatest soccer team this city has ever known?”

Gerald pulled Arnold aside. “Arnold, we can’t have this guy coach our team.”

“Why not?” asked Arnold.

“Coach Wittenberg taught my sister’s soccer team – he was awful! Timberly’s team was the worst in the league. In fact, the reason why I’m late is because I had to take her out for an ice cream sundae to get her mind off losing yet ANOTHER game. You gotta talk to him!”

But before Arnold could do anything, Mr. Simmons had also appeared on the field.

“Hello, children!” said Mr. Simmons. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Wait a minute – do we have two soccer coaches?” asked Sid.

“Yeah, Wittenberg said he’s the coach this year,” Helga pointed her thumb at Coach Wittenberg.

“I’m afraid there must be some sort of mistake,” explained Mr. Simmons. “I spoke to the league this year and they specifically said that I was to coach  this team.”

This time it was Coach Wittenberg’s turn to pull Mr. Simmons aside. “Look, pal,” he said under his breath. “I kinda need this gig. I just got fired from coaching a team of 6 year-old girls, and my wife Tish will kill me if I come home and tell her I’m unemployed again. Can you just let me have this?”

“Well…I’m sure something could be worked out…” said Mr. Simmons, scratching his head. I’m good friends with the head of the league – perhaps I could put in a good word to sign you in as an assistant coach. It might take a few weeks to get through the red tape, but…”

“Excellent! You’re the best!” exclaimed Wittenberg; he slapped Mr. Simmons hard on the back and approached the group of kids. “Attention, children! As hereto and forthwith, I Coach Wittenberg have graciously elected that I share the co-coaching abilities with your Mr. Timmins.”

“It’s Simmons, actually,” corrected Mr. Simmons. And I never said—“

He was abruptly cut off by the shrill blare of Wittenberg’s whistle. “All right, let’s get to work on some soccer drills, on the double!”

The kids obeyed, and started to run around the perimeter of the field.

“Nice going, football-head,” said Helga as she ran beside Arnold.

“This is gonna be a loooooooong season,” commented Gerald, running on the other side of Arnold.

Arnold said nothing, merely sighing in exasperation.


	2. Chapter 2

The following day the tryouts got into full swing. After forcing the children to run drills, Coach Wittenberg then had them practicing their aim by trying to shoot the ball in the net.

“That’s it…good…” observed Wittenberg. “That’ nice form there, Pataki…good hustle, Johanssen…for crying out loud, Horowitz! You’re supposed to be BLOCKING the ball!”

“Sorry, coach,” apologized Eugene. Try as he might , he could not accurately predict the direction of any ball that came his way, and when the ball did come directly for him, Eugene would duck to the ground.”

“The team’s offense is only as good as its defense. If we’re to have any chance of capturing the championship, ours must be as impenetrable as the walls of Fort Knox.”

“Now, let’s not overwhelm the children,” cautioned Mr. Simmons. “It’s victory enough if the team makes the playoffs. Some of these children joined the team merely for fun and—“

“What the heck kinda killer instinct talk is that, Simmons?!” snapped Coach Wittenberg. “Next you’ll be telling me that ‘every participant is a winner’! These kids will never get anywhere in life with that sort of milksop mentality!”

“I just think---“

“Op-op-op-op!” Wittenberg cut him off. “We’re coaching a team of athletes and champions, Simmons. Not running some quaint little sewing circle. Now are you gonna keep being a Granola Boy, or are you gonna coach these kids?!”

“Please don’t call me that,” said Mr. Simmmons, who then turned to wave at Eugene. “Maybe let’s have someone else be goalie for a little while…”

Meanwhile, sitting on the bench on the sidelines, Lorenzo was hard at work at some extracurricular assignment. Timberly, Gerald’s younger sister, sat beside him on the bench, and swung her legs as she watched the tryouts.

“I play soccer too, ya know,” revealed Timberly. “That fat man coached my team – he called us a bunch a crybabies and milksops, too.”

“Uh-huh…that’s pretty cool…” said Lorenzo, who was focusing all his attention on the laptop.

“What are you doing?” asked Timberly.

“I’m finishing some algebraic proofs for my college prepatory math course.”

“What’s algae-berry?” asked Timberly. “And why aren’t you playing soccer like everyone else?”

“It’s a branch of mathematics,” replied Lorenzo. “And…I just don’t have time to play soccer. I’m very busy.”

“Maybe if you finished your algae-berry work faster, you’d have more time to play with your friends.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Lorenzo, though not really meaning it. Then his cell phone rang. “Excuse me, I have to take this,”, he said, as he stood up and walked away from the bench.

“Uh, excuse me…” said Mr. Simmons to the two fifth graders that walked onto the field.

Coach Wittenberg grabbed the whistle around Mr. Simmons neck, practically strangling him, and blew it with all his might. “You two! This is a closed tryout! Vacate the premises immediately!”

Wolfgang scoffed. “Yeah, right. Like a bunch of lame old dudes are going to tell us what to after-school. Real scary, huh, Edmund?”

“Yeah, I’m shaking in my boot,” replied Edmund.

“Okay, tough guy- you wanna dance?!” threatened Wittenberg, approaching the two boys. “You wanna dance? Give me the name of your parents, right now!”

“Oh I’ll give you their names – my mom’s named “Get” and my dad’s name is “Stuffed!’” As he said this, Wolfgang grabbed a nearby soccer ball and kicked it with all his might.

Coach Wittenberg ducked and the ball continued to sail through the air directly for Timberly.

“Timberly, look out!” cried Gerald.

Timberly screamed and shielded her face from the impending impact.

Suddenly, and virtually out of nowhere, Lorenzo swooped in to block the ball with his head – or, more specifically, his face.

The entire field gasped in shock.

“Oh crap! Let’s cheese it!” said Wolfgang, and both he and Edmund ran off.

“Come back you, you little punks!” Coach Wittenberg was going to chase after them, but Mr. Simmons held him back.

“I think our main priority is to get Lorenzo to a hospital.”

“You saved my life!” said Timberly. “You’re my hero!”

“Where am I?” asked a confused Lorenzo.


	3. Chapter 3

Lorenzo’s eyes fluttered open and he was aware he was in a hospital bed. His mother embraced him as soon as he sat up.

“Oh, Lorenzo, my baby!” she exclaimed. “Thank goodness you’re alright! I was worried about  you!”

“It’s okay, mom – really. Could you stop please? You’re embarrassing me?”

His mother released him, but not before leaving a big sloppy smooch on his forehead.

“I honestly cannot apologize enough,” said Mr. Simmons. “Some older kids who weren’t even in the squad had butted in during try-outs—“

“But your boy had expertly belied them with his extraordinarily fast reflexes!” interrupted Coach Wittenberg.

“Yes. Well the important this is that Lorenzo is okay…”

“Have you ever considered signing him up for soccer?” asked Wittenberg.

“What?” Simmons, Lorenzo, and his mother said simultaneously.

“Your son has all the trappings of an elite goalie. I think it would do him well to engage in some intramural camaraderie and to have some fun while he’s doing it,” explained Wittenberg. “I always see him frittering way on that contraption of his. No good for a kid his age – vitamin D deficiency is a thing, you know.”

“That’s very generous of you to say, Jack,” said Mr. Simmons, slightly testily. “But that decision must ultimately come down to his mother.

“Actually,” said Lorenzo’s mom. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

“You do?” said Lorenzo. “But mom—“

“May I have a moment alone with my son, please?” she asked.

“Of course,” said Mr. Simmons, and both he and Wittenberg exited the room. When they were gone, Lorenzo’s mother sat beside him on the bed.

“ _Mijo_ , the coach is right. You mentioned that your therapist detected some stress vibes during your last visit? I think you need to allow for more physical time in your schedule. And even though I was worried, I remember how happy you looked that day you decided to play with your little friends. I think signing up for the team will be good for your morale.”

Lorenzo sighed. “Okay, mom. I’ll do it.”

Through the window looking into the room, Coach Wittenberg put his thumbs up as a question; Lorenzo’s mother replied silently by smiling and nodding.

Wittenberg jumped up and down in excitement, totally oblivious to the look of apprehension painted on Lorenzo’s face.


	4. Chapter 4

The team had been chosen and the group went to the soccer field to practice. There were quite the murmurings to be had when, rather than sit at the sidelines, Lorenzo approached the team in a soccer uniform, ball in hand.

Helga scoffed. “Do my eyes deceive me? Since when does Rich Boy do anything besides bury his nose in his computer? We must be really hard-up for talent to resort to this.”

Lorenzo didn’t reply; rather he simply released the ball so that he could juggle it from one foot to the next without the ball touching the ground. After doing that for a while, he kicked the ball and it sailed into the nearby net, before Eugene could even react.

“You were saying?” asked Gerald. Helga folded her arms and “harrumphed”, but said no more.

The other kids murmured in awe and approached Lorenzo. “Whoa – can you teach me to do that?” asked Sid.

“Sure, I guess,” said Lorenzo, shrugging.

“How did you get so good at that?” asked Harold.

“My dad had taught me,” explained Lorenzo, grabbing another ball and proceeding to bounce it on his head. “He had a lot of friends that he grew up with that played professionally, and they’re now the best football players in the Premiere League.”

“I ain’t the brightest bulb,” began Stinky. “But I’m pretty sure we’re playing with a soccer ball and not a football.”

“Actually, it’s only in America where the sport is referred to as ‘soccer’,” corrected Phoebe. “The rest of the world, and even the Olympics, calls the sport by the more popular term ‘football’.”

“I guess that makes sense,” said Gerald, looking at a soccer ball in his hand. “We do use our feet more than anything when we play. But we already have a sport named football – what does the rest of the world call that?”

The kids were silent for a moment, but then Curly spoke up. “Personally I think football should be called ‘hand egg’ – it just makes more logical sense.”

Helga laughed. “Oh please – could you imagine if I had to call Arnold ‘hand-egg-head’?”

Arnold rolled his eyes. “Or you could just call me by my name…"

“Okay, children, gather round!” said Coach Wittenberg. “Our first game is this Friday and I want you to know is failure is not an option!”

Mr. Simmons stepped in. “I think what Coach Wittenberg is trying to say is don’t worry too much about winning, just be sure to have fun.”

“I know what I said, Granola Boy!” challenged Wittenberg.

“OK – I’ve told you not to call me that,” said Mr. Simmons calmly.

“Call you what? Granola Boy?”

“This is your last warning, please stop,” said Mr. Simmons. Coach Wittenberg gave him an innocent look and pretended to zip his mouth. “Thank you. Now let’s—“

“Granola Boy!” yelled Coach Wittenberg, attempting to mask it as a sneeze.

“Okay, that is IT!” Mr. Simmons threw his clipboard on the ground and stormed off the field. Wittenberg laughed raucously, while Arnold chased after Mr. Simmons.

“Mr. Simmons – wait up!” said Arnold.

“I am sorry, but I cannot continue to co-coach with Wittenberg. The man is incorrigible! You’re in good hands, but I need to talk to the soccer committee. Good luck.” And with that Mr. Simmons left.

“Aw, who needs him!” said Wittenberg, waving him off as Arnold returned to the group. “I am perfectly capable of coaching you kids independently and with full autonomy of my faculties.” He held a soccer ball in his hand and stared at it for several seconds before looking at the kids for help. “Any of you know how to dribble this thing without your hands?”

“We’re doomed,” muttered Sid.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Even with Mr. Simmons absent, the team appeared to be doing very well in the regular season, thanks in no small part to Lorenzo’s latent skill and tutelage. They easily took wins from the neighbouring schools P.S. 116, 117, and 119, and for a while it appeared they were right on track to be a shoe-in for the play-offs.

“All right, take a knee everyone,” said Coach Wittenberg after yet another victory. “It goes without saying how immensely proud I am of your success and progress. You are all engaged pupils in this funny little sport known as soccer, and I am grateful to be along for the ride as your fearless mentor.”

Helga scoffed. “Oh come off it, Coach! Let’s not fool ourselves. If it wasn’t for Miracle Boy Lorenzo here joining the team, our butts would have been grass before we even started the season.”

Surprisingly, everyone murmured their agreement.

“Well, playoffs are starting next week. We have to endure a round robin trial, but then we’ll be on our way to the semi-finals. I’ve been informed our first opponent is Peavine Academy.”

Lorenzo stood up. “Excuse me, Coach – did you say….Peavine Academy?”

“Affirmative,” replied Coach Wittenberg. “Funny, we never played them in the regular season, but they’re just a bunch of trust fund, pampered private school kids, hardly a match for us! Hey kiddo, you OK?”

Lorenzo backed away from the group, his face noticeably paler. “I-I just remembered. I have S.A.T. prepatory classes early today. I need to go!”

His feet couldn’t carry him fast enough from the area.

 

 

Lorenzo wasn’t seen again until the first day of the round robins. Everyone seemed relieved to see him, but Arnold was concerned.

“Hey, Lorenzo – are you alright? We missed you at practice yesterday,” said Arnold.

“Oh yeah. Sure. I’m fine,” said Lorenzo, unconvincingly.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days. Are you sur—“

“Listen, Arnold, can we talk later? I need my focus when I’m defending the net.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course,” said Arnold, taken aback by Lorenzo’s bluntness.

As the rest of Arnold’s team prepared from the upcoming game, the opposing team entered the field.

“Here come our competitors,” Helga said, drily.

“Yeah, “ said Arnold. “And…hey wait a minute….is that who I think it is…?”

Arnold pointed to the woman following the team onto the field. Helga squinted, then smirked. “Yup…This should be interesting…”

The blonde woman walked past her team and approached Wittenberg, a smug smile creeping on her lips. “Hello, Jack.”

Coach Wittenberg gritted his teeth. “Tish….”

“So…once again, you and I are at odds with one another, vis a vis, you will be subjected to an epic demolishment, leading to your imminent groveling.”

“Can we not do this in front of the kids…?” muttered  Wittenberg.

“Ah, suck it up – our son Tucker sees us go at it on a daily basis. And weren’t you coaching a team of five-year-old girls?”

“I’ve been promoted,” he said through gritted teeth.

The rest of the opposing team came to greet Wittenberg’s group. Two girls in particular approached Lorenzo at the goalpost. When they were close,  Lorenzo broke out in a cold sweat.

“Hello, Loser-enzo,” said one of the girls. “Long time, no see.”

“G-Gabriella,” Lorenzo stammered. “S-Sophia….”

“Figures you’d be a goalie,” said the other girl. “You were so used to taking abuse.”

Tish blew her whistle and waved the girls over. “Let’s go girls! Time to run some drills!”

“See you later, Loser-enzo,” the girls said simultaneously.

Lorenzo leaned against the goalpost. Arnold ran over to Lorenzo. “Lorenzo?”

“I’m fine,” said Lorenzo, staring off into the distance. Concerned, Arnold ran over to Coach Wittenberg, who also seemed out of sorts.

“Coach Wittenberg, I think something’s up with Lorenzo, he’s acting really strange....Coach Wittenberg?”

Wittenberg bit his fist tensely. “Kid, go get me a Yahoo! Soda, would you?”

 


	6. Chapter 6

The team did poorly, unsurprisingly. They were simply overpowered by the “trust fund rich kids” of Peavine Academy. Lorenzo was so ineffective it was like no one was even guarding the goal. In fact, by the end of the second half, Lorenzo was playing just as badly as Eugene in the position, if not worse.

After the match, the team sat down dejectedly for conciliatory ice cream sundaes. They all stared at their melting bowls, but no one bothered to take the first spoonful.

“This really bites,” said Stinky, breaking the silence.

“I’ll say,” muttered Sid, stirring the ice cream with his spoon but never lifting it. “We were so close to being undefeated in the league."

Helga pushed her liquidy sundae bowl away in disgust. “Who cares about that? If we play this crappily again, at this rate we’ll be knocked out of the playoffs for sure!”

“This is all Lorenzo’s fault!” yelled Harold, slamming his fists on the table and shaking his sundae bowl. The other teammates grumbled their agreement.

“Now, wait a minute,” said Arnold. “We all could have played a little better. That’s no reason to make Lorenzo the scapegoat.”

“Well, it’s true we weren’t all ‘Bending it like Berman’ here,” quipped Helga (Harold folded his arms and scowled, not appreciating the remark). “But Lorenzo’s the reason the score was so one-sided. It was like the guy was made out of swiss cheese, he was letting so many goals through!”

“We might as well have put Eugene out there!” said Curly.

“Yeah!” said Eugene, then realizing the slight. “Hey….!”

“Come on you guys – it wasn’t Lorenzo’s fault,” Arnold said. “He seemed to be really inside his own head. I think something was bothering him.”

“Then you better extract Lorenzo from his own Arsenal,” said Helga. “Or we’re all talking to Coach Wittenberg about replacing him.”

“Speaking of which, where is Coach Wittenberg?” asked Gerald. “He’s the one that’s supposed to pay for all these sundaes.

“Actually, it was Mr. Simmons who regularly compensated for post-game refreshments,” commented Phoebe. “And I believe he saw him talking to himself in his car in the parking lot.”

Helga rolled her eyes. “That’s certainly healthy.”

Suddenly, there was the sound of screeching tires. Arnold and the rest of his team ran to the windows just in time to see Wittenberg’s peel out of the parking lot, effectively leaving the children to foot the bill.

“Arnold, you NEED to talk to Coach Wittenberg, and fast,” advised Gerald.

“I will,” said Arnold. “After I deal with Lorenzo.”

 ---

The team’s next round robin game was 3 days away, and once again Lorenzo had gone MIA during practice. Coach Wittenberg seemed simultaneously distracted and ill-equipped to properly guide the team, so it was up to Arnold to put the pieces back in place to get everyone on track. Arnold tried all of Lorenzo’s usual after-school haunts – computer camp, Young Investors class, viola lessons – but his search came up fruitless. Finally, after exhausting all of the other options, Arnold opted for an unconventional location.

The dump was understandably deserted save for the mountains of trash that loomed not too far from the downtown core of the city. A saner or better adjusted individual wouldn’t have been caught dead amongst the trash, and yet that’s where Arnold finally found Lorenzo, sitting on an old milk crate and staring at a soccer ball he held in his hands.

“I thought I’d find you here!” exclaimed Arnold.

Lorenzo looked up briefly, then went back to looking at the ball. “Oh. Hey Arnold.”

Arnold sat next to him on the milk crate. “What’s going on, Lorenzo? You’ve been acting strange ever since we played Peavine Academy last week.”

“It’s nothing. You don’t want to hear about it,” said Lorenzo.

“Try me,” insisted Arnold.

Lorenzo let out a heavy, weary sigh. “Have I ever told you the real reason why I left Peavine Academy?”

“No,” admitted Arnold.

“It was Sophia and Gabriella Menendez – the two twins from the Peavine Academy soccer team,” said Lorenzo. “They…..they…”

“They bullied you?” asked Arnold.

“Constantly, Arnold – constantly!” Lorenzo buried his face into the soccer ball. “For as long as I went to school there, they used to constantly harass and embarrass me. It got to the point where I developed panic attacks just thinking about going to school. My mom saw how miserable I was, so she transferred me to P.S. 118. I thought things would finally get better – I was making new friends and my after-school programs and therapy sessions really helped with the anxiety. But now…”

“Have you tried talking to these two girls?” asked Arnold.

Lorenzo glared at Arnold. “Are you kidding me? All they would do is make fun of me and call me Loser-enzo! It’s probably just as well you found me here in the dump, Arnold. All I am to those girls is garbage.”

Arnold frowned and put a comforting hand on Lorenzo. “You know that’s not true! You’re an amazing student, and an incredible soccer player. I can’t believe how much the rest of the team and I learned from you these past few weeks. On some days,  you were an even better teacher than Coach Wittenberg. Any team would be lucky to have you as a part of it.”

Lorenzo smiled faintly. “Thanks, Arnold. You really mean that?”

“I know so. But I doesn’t matter what I think: the important thing is what YOU think. Every day, you need to look at yourself in the mirror and tell yourself ‘I am worth it’. ‘I have value’. Don’t let these other girls from Peavine Academy dictate how YOU feel about yourself.”

Lorenzo rubbed his eyes, which were getting a bit misty. “Thanks, Arnold. I needed that.”

“Do you think you’ll be ready enough to join us for practice afternoon?”

“Are you kidding?” asked Lorenzo, standing up from the milk carton and causing Arnold to brace himself for a new meltdown.

But Lorenzo spun around and looked Arnold in the eye with fresh determination on his face. “I need to catch up on what I missed. Can you help me?”

He tossed the soccer ball to Arnold, who caught it and smiled. “Of course.”


	7. Chapter 7

Arnold and Coach Wittenberg sat across from Mr. Simmons in his living room. A kettle of tea was on the table between them, as well as a platter of cookies; Wittenberg took a couple in his hand and munched on them audibly, leaving crumbs all over the sofa. If this had fazed Mr. Simmons, he didn’t show it, save for the foot rocking as he held a cup of tea on his knee.

“Is there a reason you wanted to see me today?” Mr. Simmons said, evenly.

“Yes,” said Arnold. “Actually…WE had something to say…right?” Arnold nudged Coach Wittenberg in his side; nearly causing him to drop the cookies still in his hand.

“Oh, right, said Coach Wittenberg. “We-uh…we’d like to have you back on the team.”

Mr. Simmons said nothing, his face impassive.

Wittenberg rubbed the back of his neck in the uneasy silence. “Playoffs have started and…you have a better way with the children and all that. Working around their idiosyncrasies and peccadilloes and such. What I’m trying to say is…we need you to coach the team. Actually coach, not this co-coaching business.”

Mr. Simmons took a sip from his teacup then set it back on the table. “Well, I do miss being on the field.”

“And the rest of the kids and I really miss you,” added Arnold. “Please, Mr. Simmons….”

“I’m willing to come back, but only on a few conditions…”

“Of course, anything,” said Arnold.

“First, I get to execute some of my plays. Second, we get to try some healthier post-match restaurants; I know of a place that makes vegan ice cream.”

“Okay…” said Coach Wittenberg uneasily.

“And third,” Mr. Simmons focused his eye contact directly on Coach Wittenberg. “You will no longer address me by that…loathsome name,”

“Oh, sure, sure, of course!” insisted Coach Wittenberg. “I promise! Cross my heart and hope to exsanguinate!”

Only then did Mr. Simmons begin to soften and a smile crept onto his lips.  “Alright, then. You have a deal.”

He extended his hand across the table and Coach Wittenberg accepted it in a shake.

At that moment, Peter appeared and set a second tray of treats on the table, which Coach Wittenberg promptly attacked.

“You have to try these, Arnold,” insisted Mr. Simmons. “Peter cooked them entirely from scratch.”

Arnold took a bite. “They’re delicious! What are they?”

“It’s my own recipe!” Peter said proudly. “I call them ‘Peter’s Famous Granola Balls’’”!

Coach Wittenberg practically choked on what was in his mouth. Arnold nudges him harshly again in the side; Coach Wittenberg coughed for several seconds.

“It’s….delicious?” he said hoarsely.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

With Mr. Simmons coaching again and an effective pep talk with Lorenzo, the team was back in full form and became a contender through the round robin playoffs.  They had easily knocked off the competition and coasted through the quarterfinals and semifinals, and eventually they had made their way to the championship.

On the night of the big game, the team grouped together in a huddle at the request of the two coaches.

“All right, team,” began Coach Wittenberg. “We’ve made it this far. All we have to do tonight is defeat Peavine Academy to secure our place as the immutable authority in soccer!”

“And don’t forget to have fun, and try your best!” interjected Mr. Simmons.

Bemused, Coach Wittenberg grabbed Mr. Simmons in a headlock and gave him a light noogie. “Yes…your head coach is right. No matter what happens tonight, we’re both very proud of you. Now go out there and have fun!”

The team cheered and put their hands in for a celebratory game cry. “Goooooooooo 118!”

As the kids arrive on the field, the Martinez twins brushed by Lorenzo. They regarded him coolly, then burst out laughing. Lorenzo froze a bit, but then relaxed when Arnold placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay, man?” asked Arnold.

Lorenzo smiled and slowly nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay. Let’s do this!”

Arnold smiled and gave him a thumbs up, then went to his position on the field.

“Is he gonna be alright?” asked Gerald.

Arnold turned to look at Lorenzo, who was taking his position in front of the goal. “He’ll be fine,” insisted Arnold. “He’s ready.”

The match began, and it was a tough one. By the first half, Peavine Academy was dominating, scoring one goal after another. But then halftime came and the kids at P.S. 118 really began to gel. Arnold scored one, then Gerald and Helga scored another. Pretty soon, by the time stoppage time began, both Peavine Academy and P.S. 118 had a tied score. Which could only mean one thing…

“A shootout,” muttered Coach Wittenberg. “It always comes down to the shoutout…”

For the shootout, each team had 5 chances to score a point against the opposing team. First Arnold went first, and made the goal. Then Peavine went and scored a goal. Gerald was next, and he scored a goal, as did the second striker for Peavine.

Curly went up next, but his ball veered too far off to the left; Peavine answered with a successful goal. Helga scored a goal in the fourth attempt, and this time it was Peavine that missed.

It was now down to the final two goals. Coach Wittenberg took Harold aside to give him a quick pep talk.

“Don’t be nervous, kid, “ advised Wittenberg. “You may not be our most accurate striker, but you’ve got the strength, and I think that’s all you’ll need to get past their goalie.”

Harold groaned. “Oh, please don’t tell me you want me to start thinking about strained beets! I hate that stuff!”

“Forget about that!” said Wittenberg. “I want you to focus on whatever it takes to get that soccer ball sailing true and expeditiously between that goalpost.”

“Okay, I’ll try,” grumbled Harold as he made his way back on the field.

“Come on, Harold!” yelled a voice. “Bend it like Berman!”

Harold turned to look at the crowd that stayed to watch the game, and was surprised to spot Rhonda cheering him on alongside Nadine.

Bolstered with newfound confidence, Harold charged at the ball and kicked it with all his might. The ball sailed true and right past the goalie, securing them their final point.

The team cheered. “Alright!” said Gerald. “Now all Lorenzo has to do is block the last one and we’ve won!”

“Yeah…except look who our last opponent is…” said Arnold.

As Lorenzo stood in front of the goalpost, he found himself face to face with Gabriella Martinez.

“Well, well, well,” she smirked. “How fitting is it that Loser-enzo will be the one to blow your victory?”

Lorenzo got into defensive position. “You don’t frighten me, Gabriella – or your sister. Not anymore. And I’m not garbage – the only thing that’s garbage is the way that you treat people. You can say a lot of hurtful things, but you can't affect how I feel about myself. And…I feel like I’m worth it!”

Gabriella frowned. “Oh yeah? We’ll just see about that!” She ran at top speed at the ball and kicked it with all her might. Her approach made the ball’s trajectory unpredictable, and it veered and curved in such a way where it seemed to be out of Lorenzo’s reach…

“Oh no , I can’t watch…” cried Sid, closing his eyes.

 Lorenzo leapt at the ball, stretching his arms out as far as he could. Miraculously, the soccer ball bounced off the very tips of his fingers, and the ball was deflected away from the goal.

There was a moment of silence as the entire crowd processed what had happened, then everyone erupted into an uproarious cheer. P.S. 118 had won!  Coach Wittenberg and Mr. Simmons jumped up and down in excitement, holding each other. (Helga was so elated she ripped her shirt off[ a la Brandi Chastain from the 1996 Women’s World Cup](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-A1-Rz_pks)).

Afterwards, the two teams did the obligatory handshake in a line while saying “good game”. When it was Gabriella’s turn to shake Lorenzo’s hand she deliberately tried to avoid it. Unexpectedly, it was her own sister, Sophia, who stopped the procession of the line and would not budge until Gabriella turned around and shook his hand. Sophia punched Lorenzo hard in the shoulder. “Good game, huh?” she said, winking, before turning to rejoin her team.

Some of the other boys on the team noticed this and started egging Lorenzo on. “Hey now,” teased Gerald. “Look like someone has a bit of a crush on you!”

Lorenzo blushed. “What? No way?”

“Everyone knows that when a girl picks on you, it’s obvious she likes you,” said Sid.

Helga overheard this and – while quickly putting her shirt back on  - butted in. “W-what? Don’t be stupid! There’s no basis to that! The girl’s just…weird! Honestly, her and Rich Boy would probably get along swimmingly."

Gerald and Arnold rolled their eyes.

“Excellent work, gentlemen!” Wittenberg praised. “Where should we go to commemorate this momentous location?”

“Let’s go to Slaussens!” yelled Harold; and everyone seemed to agree.

Wittenberg laughed. “Sounds like a plan! Hey Simmons – be sure to bring  your award-winning granola balls along – I gotta a mean hankering for some trail mix!”

Simmons beamed and dug into his cooler to retrieve his granola stash. In the corner of his eyes, Wittenberg, noticed Tish and her team exiting the field, and for a brief millisecond, he caught his wife’s eye….

* * *

 

Later that night, Wittenberg practiced dribbling a soccer ball from one leg to the next, sweat pouring like buckets from his back. Tish stood beside him, whistle at the ready.

“Can…I…take…a…break…yet?” asked Wittenberg?

Tish responded by blowing the whistle loudly in his ear. “Not a chance, Granola Boy!” she yelled. “You expect to get more work as a soccer coach, you gotta know how to actually play the game! Now how many players are on a team? Go!”

“Uh…seven?” Wittenberg’s wrong answer was met with another sharp trill of the whistle. “Eleven, Jack! For Cripes’ sake – what do you think this is? Rugby? Now drop down and give me 50!”

Wittenberg dropped to his knees. “Why did I ever get re-married…?”

Offside, Peter and Mr. Simmons were sitting in lawnchairs and eating the granola balls. Peter turned to Mr. Simmons and smiled. “You’re right, this IS quality entertainment. Better than the opera indeed.”

 

**THE END**

 


End file.
